


The Narcissus Affair

by weepingwisteria



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Secret Identity, crack premise serious execution, impossible decision
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-25
Updated: 2014-05-27
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:57:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1518197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weepingwisteria/pseuds/weepingwisteria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is hiding a terrible secret. When Courfeyrac unwittingly discovers it, he is forced to question his own ideas of loyalty and virtue, and decide whether or not to keep silent - for the sake of the Republic.</p><p>(This is a super old fic I've decided to resuscitate)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello potential readers. (Have I charmed you yet?) This is a story I was working on about five years ago, that I'd given up on forever, until a few days ago when I suddenly felt inspired to rework and continue it. I haven't really been in fandom in as many years and it seems to have exploded since I last checked in. Not that I'm complaining – I just feel sort of like a fandom Rip Van Winkle. But I hope there might still be room for this quaint old-timey little story!

Juliette de Saint-Pierre had a bronze Narcissus in her sitting room. It was an interesting piece, if mediocre in its execution: subtle, introspective, with no pool of petrified water, no lilies or rushes, nothing at all to suggest the identity of the figure except for a dreamy, downcast gaze. Juliette thought very little of it, seeing it every day. It had come to her from the estate of a widowed aunt who had died the previous February.

When her brother came to visit in September, he took an interest in the piece. Juliette was acutely embarrassed by his lack of subtlety. Several times each day he would enter the drawing room, circle it, examine it from every angle, sometimes smiling, sometimes looking perturbed. Juliette wanted to tell him to sit down and behave like a regular adult, but she stifled her emotion and reminded herself that he had always been restless – something, she believed, to do with his red hair.

The truth was, her brother was rather less embarrassing when he was scrutinising the furnishings than when he joined in the conversation. An outsider might think him quite unaware of the rules of polite society, but Juliette knew better. He had, after all, had the same upbringing as herself, and she knew perfectly well that he could slick on a veneer of respectability when he chose. But the wretch clearly enjoyed shocking her guests, flaunting his terrible Jacobin ideas and generally making a spectacle of himself. On the first night, he had actually corrected the local curate, introducing himself as ‘just Courfeyrac.’ Just Courfeyrac! Great-grandfather toiled all his life in the service of the crown, only to have his last remaining heir call himself plain Jean Courfeyrac…!

He left after two weeks, and Juliette breathed deep with relief, though not unmixed with guilt. He promised to return soon, sooner than last time. It was an absolute crime that she had lived in this house nearly two years and he was only just visiting for the first time. Yes, it was awful, but that’s what happens when boys run away to Paris. Her brother took her face in both hands and kissed her on the brow. Soon, he promised, laughing. Juliette retired early to her bedchamber. For the first time in a fortnight she had some hope of an easy night’s rest.

 

* * *

 

Enjolras was frightening. Courfeyrac would never admit this, of course; the man was his friend, after a fashion. But there was something about him that made Courfeyrac nervous, something impenetrable. He called Enjolras his friend, but he didn’t know why. He didn’t know why someone like Enjolras should exist.

Most of the time, he didn’t think of it. Only sometimes, during strange lulls when they found themselves alone, compelled to carry on a conversation. They would talk about the weather, their lectures, books they had both read. Sometimes, when the hour was late, they would talk about home. It always made Courfeyrac melancholy; he liked to imagine that Enjolras felt it, too. 

It would be wrong to say that Courfeyrac studied Enjolras. He was generally preoccupied with other matters. But it was only natural that he noticed when something changed, a subtle shift, like entering a room where you can’t hear the noise from the street. It was rare, but it happened. Something would flash in Enjolras’s eyes – a flicker of amusement, a hint of malice. Courfeyrac noticed. It intrigued him. Yet every time he searched for it, it was gone.

 

Courfeyrac wondered, from time to time, if Marius knew more than he let on. Perhaps he quietly absorbed it all, the gossip and the political philosophy he never seemed to grasp a word of. When Courfeyrac thought like this, he became nervous despite himself. He had never been sure how to define Marius Pontmercy. Marius was a child of the Empire. Marius was young and handsome. Marius was poor. Marius was clever – Courfeyrac never would have guessed it, but he had proofed his friend’s compositions and watched the concentration cloud his face when he read _Pamela_ in English – yes, Marius was clever, but rather useless. Marius was timid, so much so that one often felt embarrassed by association. Marius was obstinate. Marius was charming.

Perhaps he didn’t know Marius, but then, did he know anyone, really? He wanted to trust Marius, but he preferred that Marius trust him. It was rather thrilling, venturing where no one else had dared; becoming the confidant of a reclusive Marius, or an Enjolras, or anyone else he has disarmed and conquered. Why should he be afraid? If he refused to have faith in people, what would he ever achieve?

 

* * *

 

 

He was back within the week. Soon, he had promised; but this was a bit much. He had had second thoughts along the road, turned back before he was halfway to Paris. He ought to know it’s rather frowned upon, showing up unannounced like this, imposing on his brother-in-law’s hospitality. But what kind of woman would Juliette be if she turned her own brother out of her home?

Late summer suited him. He was so handsome on the garden bench, sprawled as because he was really too big for it, basking in the yellow light. Once Juliette had felt deeply proud of her older brother. Now, when she told the neighbours she was entertaining her brother, they raised their eyebrows and praised her Christian charity. No matter his distance, his reputation survived.

‘So, Juliette,’ he began, swirling the lemonade in his glass. He had a way of speaking so that one felt unable to answer. ‘Juliette,’ he said again, and she wondered if he had planned anything to say next.

‘Jean-André,’ she replied, realising a moment too late how much she sounded like their mother.

‘I noticed you have in your house a piece of art–’

‘Ah! Narcissus?’

He looked truly surprised. ‘Yes, that’s the one. Juliette, how did you guess? Well, no matter. I was just wondering where you acquired it.’

‘Oh. It came from our aunt Victoire’s estate.’

‘Yes, of course. Do you know where it came from?’ 

‘No. It was just something she had. I think it was a recent purchase.’

‘Shame.’ He pursed his lips. He looked that way when he was thinking, and especially when he thought something that didn’t please him. ‘Fair enough,’ he said at last. ‘I don’t know why I brought it up, anyway. It’s not rational. It’s just that it reminds me of someone I know. Every time I see it, it strikes me again.’

‘Oh! I think I know who you mean!’

He looked puzzled. Juliette smiled, pleased to have the upper hand at last. ‘I don’t think you do,’ he said.

‘But Claire pointed it out to me, just the other day. I told her you’d taken an interest in it, and she told me who it looks like. Now I see it, too. It’s really quite funny. It looks just like that awful Desmarais boy.’

‘Who?’

‘Don’t you remember? He was a servant in my husband’s house, a terrible little boy.’

‘Juliette, I don’t make a point of memorising my brother-in-law’s servants.’

‘No, it was years ago, when we were still young. You ought to remember him. He had to leave after he got into a fight with their groom – utterly unprovoked. Don’t you remember the scandal when that girl from their house was with child? Everyone believed it was his doing,’ she said, pulling out her fan and fluttering it near her face. ‘Of course, who really knows?’

Jean-André looked blank. ‘I suppose,’ he said slowly, ‘I remember him a little, from the summer we stayed with the Saint-Pierres. But I can assure you, that is not who I was thinking of.’

‘Perhaps you remembered his face, though you couldn’t recall its owner.’

Jean-André began to object again, but he was cut off by approaching footsteps and a rustle of cotton skirts. Claire had arrived. Juliette hadn’t told him she was coming, so she was able to savour a moment of real emotion as brother and sister embraced. ‘We were just talking about that sculpture in the drawing room,’ Juliette told her when all were seated again. ‘I was telling him what you said. About who it looks like.’

‘Oh, that’s right,’ Claire says. ‘It’s frightening, isn’t it? How can you carry on a decent conversation while _he’s_ looking on at you?’

‘He’s not looking at you, though, is he? He’s looking at himself. That’s rather the point of Narcissus. But as I tried to tell Juliette, I meant someone else. A friend of mine from Paris –’

‘Yes, Paris!’ Claire interjected. ‘While we’re on the subject, how much does it cost to have a new muslin gown made in the city? I swear they just can’t do it as delicate in Toulouse.’

‘We weren’t on the subject, and Claire, I really wouldn’t know, because I don’t wear muslin.’

‘Oh, fie. You must have a sweetheart who does, though. Don’t you?’ she pressed, eyes sparkling.

‘That’s neither here nor there!’

‘What about a crepe bonnet? How many ribbons do _respectable_ ladies wear, usually? I never trust fashion plates, the girls all look like actresses.’

‘As I was saying, this friend of mine, he was born in Toulouse, or rather nearby, I think. Perhaps you know the family. His name is Enjolras.’

‘Enjolras? It doesn’t sound familiar. What about a pair of silk gloves? My fingers are simply too slender for these ungainly provincial gloves.’ At last, Jean-André gave in and laughed.

‘Oh! I’ve just had a thought,’ Juliette cried. ‘Why don’t you take Narcissus back with you? I’m really not attached to it, and neither is my husbanad. I’m sure you’ll appreciate it much more than we do.’

‘Are you joking? I’m not carrying a bronze bust to Paris by post.’

‘Oh, please take it. We insist. It’s a gift.’

‘Juliette, I don’t even have a table. I use the same little stool for letter-writing, eating, and setting down my candle – my only candle, I might add. What on _earth_ am I going to do with Narcissus?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Claire, ‘perhaps it will impress the sweetheart you won’t speak to us about.’

‘Claire! I hardly think our brother entertains young ladies in his private chambers!’ She shot him a pointed look; he quickly glanced away.

‘I should hope not,’ Claire amended. ‘A room without wallpaper is not fit to be seen by a lady. I assume you have no wallpaper, since you don’t even have a table.’

‘Ha! That will teach you not to make assumptions. It _does_ have wallpaper. Gold, or rather mustard yellow, with black trim. The very pinnacle of fashion in 1810.’

Claire raised her eyebrows. ‘Well, then, I beg your forgiveness, and I await your gracious invitation to visit Paris.’

Courfeyrac managed artfully to avoid extending any such invitation, but, as penance for his lack of hospitality, he found himself riding back to Paris in the open air with a sixty-pound lump of god forsaken bronze between his knees.


	2. Chapter 2

Once he returned to Paris, Courfeyrac was busy all the time, but not with law school as he would have his sisters believe. There was no time for that, not with so many workers to reach, so much to arrange, still. One evening, as he and Enjolras were bent over a stack of pamphlets, folding them so that they could concealed in a pinch, Courfeyrac asked conversationally, ‘Did you ever meet a fellow called Desmarais in Toulouse?’

At the edge of his vision, he thought he saw Enjolras move sharply, but when he turned, his friend appeared calm as ever. ‘I don’t think so,’ said Enjolras. ‘Why?’ 

‘Just something my sister said, last time I saw her. Some old scandal at my brother-in-law’s house. To hear her tell it, he was the most notorious rogue in the south of France.’

Enjolras cracked the smallest of smiles at that, but he only answered, ‘Toulouse is a big city.’ Courfeyrac agreed, and that was the end of the matter.

 

Provincial gossip faded from his mind, Narcissus became a hatstand, and autumn turned to winter. A winter of anxiety in the city. People were unhappy – and people were more willing to hear their cause. Marius turned up at his door one day with all his belongings wrapped in a threadbare coat, and Courfeyrac took him in without asking questions. The coldest part of the year was just beginning.

Then one evening, when he was engaged in a debate with Enjolras over whether they _really_ ought to use Plutarch to get their point across, and warming his hands over a tiny flame, Marius entered, sat beside him, and said, ‘Courfeyrac. Something has been delivered for you. I let them bring it into your room. I hope it’s all right.’

Courfeyrac was astonished. ‘What something? Something from the printer? Who delivered it?’

‘No,’ said Marius, ‘not the printer. It’s a writing desk.’

Courfeyrac gaped at him. Then he cried, ‘My sister did this!’ and extracted himself from the company.

‘I’ll walk with you,’ said Enjolras, rising abruptly. ‘I’d like to continue our discussion.’ Courfeyrac shrugged in acceptance and they exited together. He could no longer follow the train of their conversation. Halfway to the Rue de la Verrerie he stopped in the street and exclaimed, ‘I wish I knew which of them did it! Juliette has more money, but Claire is more generous. I wish above all that she had just sent money instead.’

‘You haven’t even seen it yet,’ Enjolras pointed out. Then, as if he had not been interrupted, he calmly returned to the life of Pericles.

It was not long before the mystery was cleared up. The desk was sitting, rather inconveniently, right in the center of the room. It was a walnut writing table in the style of the last century; that is to say, though relatively unadorned, it had far too many S-curves for Courfeyrac’s taste. To his sister’s credit, it wasn’t tooextravagant, but it still looked absurd in the middle of his shabby rented room. There was a note lying on its surface. The seal had been broken, the wax halfheartedly pushed back into place. Courfeyrac unfolded it and read:

 

_My dear Saint-Preux_ (that was what Claire liked to call him)

_From now on I expect to receive a great many more letters from you. I would have sent money for you to choose your own, but I know you would have just given it to the poor. Dear brother, you could almost be a saint, if only you had the right temperament for it. I shall give triple alms in church next Sunday to make up for depriving you that pleasure. I embrace you, and so does Juliette. Post-scriptum: I mean it. Please write more often._

 

Courfeyrac felt angry, but not with Claire. It was a kind gesture, if misguided. He was angry that, innocent as she was, it never occurred to her to that her note would be opened. He was angry that it had been opened, that some hostile unknown had read such an intimate message. He was angry at the desk, and that Claire had so easily predicted his objections. He was angry he could not afford to send her a pair of silk gloves. Where would he put this monstrosity? He didn’t even have a proper chair to go with it – only the stool he used to hold his candle, and a frail old armchair with stuffing coming out of the seat. Really! He didn’t need his own table – he could go to a café for that. Firewood would have served him far better. Firewood was what this desk would end as, anyway.

His train of thought was interrupted by a strange sharp cry. Courfeyrac spun about, and saw Enjolras staring, sheet white, at the bronze Narcissus. For a moment, Courfeyrac wondered if he had been struck by the same thought which had drawn him to the piece half a year ago. Time and familiarity had dulled his initial surprise, and he had almost forgotten how he had once thought it resembled Enjolras. Now, seeing the real man standing beside the misshapen metal form, the comparison seemed absurd. 

‘Is everything all right?’ Courfeyrac asked.

‘What? Yes – it gave me a fright, that’s all. I–I wasn’t expecting to turn around and see a face behind me.’

Courfeyrac laughed. ‘I’m sorry about that. I forget it’s there, mostly. Another _useful_ gift from my _generous_ sisters.’ 

‘I see,’ Enjolras said, gradually returning to his usual color, though he still seemed uneasy.

‘I use it as a hat stand, mostly,’ Courfeyrac added. ‘Narcissus in grey felt. There’s something so delightfully unpoetic, so iconoclastic, about it.’

‘How do you know it’s Narcissus?’ asked Enjolras.

‘It’s inscribed on the back. I suspect the artist scratched it on as an afterthought, thinking a mythological theme might give his work more interest. It didn’t work.’

‘It ought to be melted down to make bullets.’

Courfeyrac laughed a little, although he was not entirely sure it was meant as a joke, having never heard Enjolras joke before. Then, to make light of the situation, he explained, ‘Juliette couldn’t bear to have it in her house any longer. She _insisted_ it bore the exact likeness of some terrible servant boy we knew when we were younger.’

‘Desmarais,’ Enjolras murmured. Courfeyrac was surprised.

‘Yes, the very same. Do you know him?’

‘No. Of course not. You’ve mentioned him to me before. I guessed.’

‘I see.’ Courfeyrac had quite forgotten. 

‘I’d better go.’ 

‘Yes, of course. Are you sure you’re well? You look pale.’

‘I’m fine,’ said Enjolras. ‘I don’t get ill.’ He said it so firmly that Courfeyrac believed him, even as he observed his unsteady progress toward the door. Courfeyrac picked up the note from Claire, sank into the sagging armchair, and began to wonder where he might put his new desk.


	3. Chapter 3

Two nights later, Courfeyrac heard a knock at the door. Startled, he rose from his vague slumber, fumbling with a candle while the knocking continued. He guessed it was about midnight. He looked to the other mattress and saw that it was empty. If it was Marius, why wouldn’t he just come in? At last Courfeyrac made his way to the door, murmuring a quick prayer on his way that it was not someone from the police.

He cracked the door open and saw Enjolras, fist raised as if to knock again. Enjolras stared at him, glassy-eyed, as though he had forgotten where he was. He seemed drunk. Courfeyrac was astonished. At last Enjolras said his name and clapped a hand to his shoulder, either to show affection or to steady himself. The force of the gesture nearly made Courfeyrac drop his candle, and he swore. Drunkenness, or affection, or perhaps even both; either possibility was so entirely unlike Enjolras, Courfeyrac could not think how to react. Once his initial shock began to subside, dread started to creep in. He could not imagine a circumstance that might make Enjolras turn up at his door after midnight, drunk, unless perhaps the Habsburgs had conquered France.

‘Enjolras,’ he said weakly. ‘Please come in. I was sleeping. What is the matter? Why have you come?’

‘I’ve come to tell you that you’re right. You’ve caught me. You’ve figured me out.’

Courfeyrac did not understand a word of this speech, but he thought it prudent to remain silent.

‘I can prove it,’ Enjolras pressed. ‘Here.’ He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small object, which he handed to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac examined it in the light. It was a little tin snuffbox with dirty chipped enamel. On the surface was a trio of crudely drawn pikes, a liberty cap, and the words Fraternity or Death. It was the sort of cheap trinket which was manufactured by the hundreds during the Revolution, and which were thrown out by the hundreds after Louis XVIII took the throne. Courfeyrac had amassed quite a collection of this sort of contraband when he was a boy.

‘It’s true,’ Enjolras said, pausing absurdly as if for dramatic effect. When Courfeyrac failed to fill in the silence, he concluded, ‘I am Philippe Desmarais.’

This was so far from anything he expected to hear, he suspected he was still dreaming. He immediately ran through his memories of Desmarais. They had been friends for a few weeks, climbing trees, drinking in secret, smoking tobacco and bothering farm girls. And when he had left – but how had he forgotten this detail? When he left, he had given Desmarais a little snuffbox as a parting gift. He hadn’t put much thought into the gesture; it had just seemed like the right thing to do. He looked down at the object in his hand, and was forced to admit to himself that it was the very snuffbox he had given Desmarais. This object brought the reality of the situation crashing down upon him. He might still have believed himself dreaming, if not for this cold tangible proof. Courfeyrac felt as if his heart had fallen into his bowels. ‘Oh God,’ he whimpered.

‘So, how long have you known?’ Enjolras asked, breaking into a grin. ‘Did you recognize me right away? No, I’m sure you did not, or you would have made some sign sooner. I knew you, of course, but I wasn’t about to say anything if you weren’t. But when you started dropping hints – Oh, it’s such a relief to have it out. I thought a thousand times that I would break down and tell you, but I was never sure. It’s that damned Narcissus that gave me away.’

Courfeyrac, his mind filled with a thousand questions, grasped at one which stood out to him. ‘You knew me? You’re saying all this time you remembered me, and you never said?’

‘Of course,’ said Enjolras, laughing. ‘You haven’t been using an assumed name – unless you count dropping your _de_. Don’t you remember how we met? I mean, here, in Paris?’

‘Not really. Through a friend, I suppose.’

‘Yes, I suppose so, too. But the truth is, I sought you out. I heard your name, and I thought, how many Courfeyracs can there be in the world? And when I saw you, I knew you right away. Because of the red hair.’

‘Oh,’ said Courfeyrac, too stunned to say much else. Then he gasped. ‘You’re damned lucky Marius isn’t here.’

Enjolras peered around his shoulder at the second mattress, as if to confirm. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I forgot he was staying with you. Where could he be, at this time of night?’

‘I don’t know,’ Courfeyrac said dryly. ‘Perhaps he’s stumbling about drunk, pounding on people’s doors and making dramatic revelations. More likely he’s with his mistress.’

Enjolras gasped. ‘Pontmercy has a mistress?’

Courfeyrac cursed his quick tongue. ‘Yes. Or perhaps not. I don’t know, truly. I suspect he does. Where else could he be going at night? But that’s beside the point. Please, don’t tell anyone.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. I’m quite good at keeping secrets.’ He pushed past Courfeyrac and sat down on Marius’s mattress, stretching out and putting an arm over his eyes.

‘You’re not staying here,’ said Courfeyrac. ‘He will be back, and I don’t think you want him to see you this way.’

‘No, I suppose not. But it’s such a relief to tell someone the truth.’

‘Why?’

‘Why? Haven’t you ever kept a secret? No, I don’t suppose you have. You’re not the type. You can’t imagine how it weighs on you. I envy you that.’

‘I mean, why on earth are you here, using a different name, and – and all of this?’

Enjolras uncovered his eyes and sat up slowly. ‘Fraternity or death,’ he said, suddenly becoming grave.

Courfeyrac turned the snuffbox over in his hand. He felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the man. ‘That is to say, you believe in the cause. And you found a way to make people listen to you.’ Enjolras – Desmarais – looked so sad Courfeyrac nearly forgot his confusion, forgot everything but his desire to make things right. ‘I won’t tell anyone, of course. I’ll keep your secret as if it were my own.’ He sat beside Enjolras on the edge of the mattress. ‘I know it isn’t easy to start again. But it doesn’t matter who you were, now. You’re Enjolras, and Enjolras is a good man.’

Enjolras tipped his head to the side and, just briefly, laid it on Courfeyrac’s shoulder. ‘That’s very kind of you,’ he murmured. Then he stood, more composed than before, and stepped toward the door. Before exiting, he turned back and said, ‘You’re wrong, though. I’m not Enjolras. I’m Philippe, and I always will be.’ He left Courfeyrac to ponder his words through all the rest of his sleepless night. Hours passed, and he realized that Desmarais had turned the conversation before he could ask about Narcissus.


	4. Chapter 4

Courfeyrac rapidly discovered that he had not quite grasped the situation.

Alas, three full days passed before he saw Enjolras again, and in those days his mind was filled with thoughts of the man who had left his name behind. An incredible man, an autodidact, and a dyed in the wool republican. Ashamed of his past, he had abandoned his old identity and created a new life for himself in Paris.

That was how Courfeyrac interpreted the situation. If anything could make sense, it was that.

However, Courfeyrac soon learned what he had meant by “I am Philippe, and I always will be.” In public Enjolras acted the same as ever. In private, he adopted an entirely different persona. He transformed into the awful Desmarais described by his sisters, though perhaps a little less terrible than they had implied. A charming scoundrel, vexing but harmless. 

Philippe was not the past Enjolras was struggling to forget. Philippe was the present, and Enjolras was a mask he slipped on and off with terrifying ease.

What astonished Courfeyrac most was how familiar Philippe was with him, as if they had always been friends. It seemed dreadfully unfair. Philippe knew him, but he could still barely fathom that Philippe existed. Courfeyrac liked him. That wasn’t the problem. But it was not an easy thing to process; and he missed Enjolras, more than he ever thought he would. More than once the thought had crossed his mind: “Of course a man like Enjolras could never have been real.”

He tried to dash this thought away. Why shouldn’t he have believed in Enjolras? Philippe, the liar, the cad, was the exception, not the rule. There were far more virtuous people in the world than there were people like Desmarais.

Still, it was unsettling. Take the evening Desmarais met Courfeyrac stepping into the Rue de la Verrerie and thrust a pamphlet under his nose, asking, ‘Have you seen this?’

‘I have, just this morning.’

‘Good.’

‘Are you going to talk about it tonight?’

‘No, you are, I’m far too drunk.’

And that was the way Philippe was. As Courfeyrac watched him that night, silent and still, he wondered how many times he had mistaken drunken stupor for stoicism. Philippe was a damned good actor.

Enjolras had been evasive. He was perfectly civil but had few private friends, and it was only after half a year of acquaintance that he began to occasionally walk with Courfeyrac when they met in the Marais. Desmarais was not so shy. Not two weeks had passed and Courfeyrac found himself reclining on the floor of Philippe’s room with a bottle of English gin, wondering idly where Philippe had got the money.

‘How did you end up in Paris?’ he asked, examining the bottle. 

Desmarais answered flatly, ‘How does anyone end up in Paris?’

‘You travelled a bit before, didn’t you?’

‘Oh, sure. I joined a troupe of actors.’

‘I might have known!’

‘I liked it, mostly – we went jaunting about Savoy for a while. I was meant to go to Milan with them, but it fell through at the last moment.’ He paused for a swig of gin. ‘I thought about carrying on when I came to Paris, but I think that without being on the road it would have lost its charm. The work itself was never that important. Of course Josette – Julie – something like that, this tramp who was following me about at the time – she didn’t approve, the hypocrite, but I – but you’ve gone white as a sheet! What is it?’

‘Julie is my sister’s name,’ Courfeyrac said tersely. Desmarais clapped a hand over his mouth and giggled, a sound that shocked Courfeyrac, even knowing that it wasn’t really Enjolras.

‘Sorry – oh, you must’ve had a fright – but no, this wouldn’t be your Julie, this woman was an absolute horror, and in any case, I left her in Annecy. But I thought your sister was called Claire?’

‘I have two.’

‘Of course.’ Desmarais said nothing for a moment, then burst into laughter. ‘Oh! Is that why she calls you Saint-Preux? Julie, Claire, and Saint-Preux?’

Courfeyrac flushed. ‘Yes, and she thinks she’s very clever for it. I can’t believe _you’ve_ read the _Nouvelle Héloïse_ , though.’

Philippe looked miffed. ‘I have!’ he cried. ‘Well, parts of it. _Enough_ of it. There’s a reason Jean-Jacques is called the Friend of the People.’

‘He’s not,’ Courfeyrac pointed out, ‘You’re thinking of Marat.’

‘I know the difference,’ Philippe snapped. He sullenly took another sip of gin. ‘To tell the truth, I didn’t really like Rousseau’s book. But I admire him all the same. I like what he stands for. And you know, he went out one day from Geneva and he said, I’m done with this life, I’m going to make a new one now. And he did. And he changed the fucking world.”

Courfeyrac smiled. ‘That’s quite beautiful, in a way. Maybe you should work it into one of your speeches.’

‘God, can you imagine?’ Philippe threw back his head and laughed.

‘I can’t, but I’ve heard stranger things.’ Courfeyrac seized the gin. ‘I have a question. Is there a story to Narcissus? What did you mean when you said it gave you away?’

‘Oh, that. It gave me such a fright to see it here, like running into a ghost. It was something I did when I was younger. Seventeen, maybe. It seemed better than delivering cured hams, and it got me out of the city right at a time when I needed to go. I even got to stay in a _villa_ , like an Italian prince.’

Courfeyrac choked. ‘You actually modeled for it?’ Somehow, he had convinced himself it only looked a little like Philippe, from the right angle. This was much stranger than he had imagined.

Philippe shrugged. ‘The artist was a hack, like you said. He was always going on about Donatello – he had seen this sculpture, thirty years ago, and he was convinced he could do better. He saw me on stage in Marseilles and simply _needed_ to sculpt me. I figured, why not? I sat around and did nothing for three weeks and I got paid better than I did to act. He was an aristocratic hack, you see.’ He smirked. ‘I probably didn’t need to be nude, since it’s only from the shoulders up, but who am I to complain if some delusional old sodomite wanted to pay a month’s wages just to gawk at me?’ He glanced at Courfeyrac, who was staring at him in astonishment. ‘Not that I have anything against it myself. You know. The vice of the Greeks, as they say.’

‘That’s _not_ what I was concerned about. And who are ‘they’? Your classical education is awfully selective.’

‘I’ve been in _Iphigenia at Aulis_ half a dozen times,’ Philippe said defensively, as if that was meant to help.

‘Euripides, or Gluck?’

Philippe looked at him blankly. ‘Now you mention it, I’ll tell you a secret. It’s one of my worst nightmares. I’m always afraid someone will say something Greek and I’ll have to pretend to know what it is. Latin I can usually puzzle through a bit. I know some Italian,’ he added with obvious pride.

‘I’m sure.’ In spite of himself, Courfeyrac was filled with growing admiration. Only now was he beginning to realize the constant danger Philippe ran, passing himself off as bourgeois. Perhaps it would have been more impressive if he’d actually learned the skills he claimed to have, but it still took a certain panache to fake them so well. ‘How have you managed?’ he asked.

‘Most people are easy enough to divert. Combeferre could probably see through me in a heartbeat, but lucky for me he speaks like a country preacher. He really works at being a man of the people. Prouvaire doesn’t expect anyone to be half as clever as he is, so he’s pleased when you don’t understand his quotations. The only one who nearly catches me out, all the damn time, is Grantaire. Once I swear he recited half a Greek tragedy to me, as if I bloody care about Orestus and his tragic Greek life.’

‘Orestes,’ Courfeyrac corrected, trying not to laugh. Philippe rolled his eyes, and Courfeyrac felt compelled to add, ‘You should know him. He was Iphigenia’s brother.’ Then he suspected he was being condescending, so he quickly asked, ‘What did you do?’

Philippe shrugged. ‘Fortunately he’s used to me not answering him.’ Courfeyrac found this exceedingly funny. ‘I’ve thought about just telling him, sometimes.’

Courfeyrac gasped. ‘You can’t do that!’

Philippe started. ‘Why not? I think he and I might actually get along, although he’s a little boring. But it’s not as if he gives a damn about the revolution. He’d probably like me better if he knew who I really was. The only thing is, I don’t think he’d be able to keep it quiet.’

‘Don’t tell him,’ said Courfeyrac. ‘I mean it.’

‘Calm down, I never said I was going to.’ Philippe was looking at him strangely now, and Courfeyrac cringed, uncertain how to explain his outburst. Fortunately he didn’t have to, because a few moments later Philippe grinned again. ‘Saint-Preux,’ he repeated. ‘It suits you. Like a knight in shining armor _._ Do you know what my Christian name is? Louis-Philippe. I wish I were joking, but I’m not.’

‘Oh dear. I can see why you needed a new one. What is Enjolras called, by the way?’

‘If you ever need to look him up, try François. Nice and simple. Though I did make up a full name for him once, something ridiculous. I would tell you only I can’t remember most of it. Horace-Achille-Narcisse-Benoît – don’t all you bourgeois gentlemen have names like that? I had a good laugh coming up with it.’

‘By yourself?’

Philippe looked puzzled. ‘By myself, what?’

‘Did you come up with it by yourself?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then it couldn’t have been a very good laugh.’

Philippe started to smile again. ‘Oh, you.’ He moved closer, placing his head against the crook of Courfeyrac’s shoulder. ‘Stop making me sentimental. Don’t you know that’s why you’re here now? To laugh at all the things I can never tell anyone else?’

Courfeyrac put an arm around his friend’s shoulders, allowing him to rest his full weight against his chest. ‘Good Lord, you’re like a little child. Or a very large one, rather. There, there, sleep it off, I won’t hold it against you. Shh, I won’t leave. Don’t worry,’ he whispered, without stopping to think, ‘I won’t tell. I won’t tell.’


	5. Chapter 5

Courfeyrac rethought the situation again.

It was strange, to be sure, that Philippe kept up his old ways even as he pretended to be Enjolras. But was it really so terrible? Enjolras was a boon to the republican cause. He was more than an insurgent, more even than a leader; he was an icon. He had a knack for drawing in the unconvinced. He made them believe that the Republic of Virtue was real and imminent. Courfeyrac had never met anyone else who could do that.

Small wonder if he could not be Enjolras all the time. What man could bear that burden?

It troubled Courfeyrac, of course. The men of 93 had valued sincerity. He thought of the traitor Mirabeau, the monstrous Dumouriez; the rhetoric of _unmasking_ which was employed, time and again, to denounce enemies of the Revolution. Courfeyrac had no doubt that the first republicans would have thought Philippe vile. But, he reasoned to himself, the present was an age of corruption. The realm of politics was rife with secrets and betrayals; perhaps they could only be fought through another, more innocent deception. Innocent deception! Could such a thing exist? In the case of Enjolras, he really thought it could. It was only human weakness that kept Philippe from becoming Enjolras entirely. He kept his secret immaculately. He did not hurt anyone, and he did a great deal of good, advancing the cause of republicanism in the wounded heart of his _patrie_.

It was now late March, or the middle of the month the revolutionaries called Germinal. That name seemed sadly inaccurate at the close of a bitter winter, but Courfeyrac clung to it as a reminder of coming spring.

Then one night the Friends of the ABC held a meeting – a proper meeting, not one of the more or less informal gatherings they normally held – and Enjolras did not show up. Courfeyrac managed to improvise most of the meeting, but Enjolras was carrying the notes he was meant to be working from, and the whole effort was rather unproductive. Combeferre seemed perturbed, and said he would go look for Enjolras. Courfeyrac quickly volunteered to go instead.

Courfeyrac hurried to the pension in the rue Saint-Antoine where Philippe stayed, irrationally afraid that one of the others would find Philippe before he did, but he was not at home. Courfeyrac turned to leave again, thinking he might try sweet-talking the landlady before scouring nearby cafés, when he heard the door groan ever so slightly. It wasn’t locked. He ought to have left then, but curiosity began to take hold of him. After looking about several times, he pushed open the door and stepped into Philippe’s room. He told himself it was silly to be nervous. He had been there plenty of times before, and Philippe would not mind him waiting inside until he returned. Knowing Philippe, he had left the door unlocked for that very purpose. He was probably just out drinking, and he was far too clever to drink anywhere he risked running into an acquaintance.

For several minutes Courfeyrac sat on his hands in a little straw chair. He looked around. The room was sparse, but not as sparse as one might expect. Every available surface was covered in papers, books, and keepsakes. Courfeyrac itched to get up and examine all of them. After a quarter of an hour or so, he did. Philippe would not have left these things out if they weren’t meant to be looked at.

At length he noticed a painted tin box sitting in the corner of the room. It was less likely that Philippe wanted him to look there, but he felt a burning curiosity to know what sort of things Philippe kept for himself. Did the box belong to Philippe, or to Enjolras? Courfeyrac carefully removed the lid from the box and ran his fingers over its contents. A pair of spectacles, a spool of thread, a paper fan. He opened the fan; it was printed with insipid muses reclining in empty white space. He replaced the fan and picked up a worn sheet of blue paper. Unfolding it gingerly, he read the words, ‘My dearest Louis…’; then, feeling ashamed for prying, he folded it again without reading on. At the bottom of the box was a slim notebook with a green paper cover. Courfeyrac picked it up and opened it haphazardly. It was a list of haberdashers, acquaintances of Feuilly. The handwriting was extremely precise, the spelling atrocious. Courfeyrac smiled. This notebook belonged to Enjolras, then. Of course Philippe could not be expected to keep it all in his head. Courfeyrac noticed a glove-maker on the list, and wondered fleetingly if he could call in a favor and get a new pair of gloves for Claire.

He flipped back to the beginning of the notebook, pausing again at a familiar name. ‘Feuilly: a fan-maker devoted to the cause of spreading revolution abroad. Having no family, he often contributes a part of his wages to collections for radical societies, and widely publicised his support for the recent revolution in Greece.’ Courfeyrac frowned. Why would Philippe need to remind himself about Feuilly? They had known each other for years, and the notebook did not seem that old.

Courfeyrac flipped to the next page, and his stomach turned. ‘Prouvaire: wealthy and educated, but dissolute and an opium-eater. In addition to the ABC he belongs to a “poetic society” of dubious morals and politics.’

His heart began to beat rapidly, he felt cold, he broke into a sweat. Bizarrely, his first thought was to look about for the chamber pot. Assured that it was close at hand, he read on.

‘Laisgles (Philippe was clearly confused by the spelling): not particularly dangerous himself but he is a trusted friend to many in republican circles. He might be worth questioning if opportunity arises.’

‘Courfeyrac!’ a voice cried behind him, and he nearly jumped from his skin. Courfeyrac quickly put the book back in the box, then realized how absurd that was and snatched it up again, trembling so violently he nearly dropped it. He turned slowly to face Philippe.

‘You went through my things?’ Philippe asked. His eyes were wide; he sounded hurt and, as expected, drunk. Courfeyrac wanted to hurt him. Instead he asked, as calmly as he could, ‘What is this?’

‘You went through my things!’ Philippe repeated, a little more desperate.

‘What _is_ this?’ Courfeyrac asked again.

‘It’s my diary,’ Philippe said, suddenly schooling his features into a calm expression that made him seem like Enjolras. This persuaded Courfeyrac that he was lying.

Courfeyrac opened the book to where he had left off, and read aloud: ‘“Bahorel: a man with dangerous violent tendencies. He fought in 1830, but not for the king.” Why would you write that?’

‘Well, it isn't a lie.’

‘Bahorel is your friend!’

‘No, he isn’t. He’s Enjolras’ friend – or rather, his associate, at best. _I_ have never much liked him.’

‘Philippe, I’ll ask you again. What is this?’

‘It’s my diary,’ Philippe repeated, with less conviction.

‘You’re lying!’ Courfeyrac barked, and Philippe motioned for him to keep his voice down. He retorted sullenly: ‘Well, if you have your answer already, why drag it out?’

‘You’re a spy.’ The word tasted acrid in Courfeyrac’s mouth. His head felt light, his eyes stung with tears. Desmarais flushed a deep ugly red, as if, somehow, _he_ had been wronged.

‘I am not a spy!’ he spat angrily. ‘It’s only a few names. I need the money. And protection. _I_ don’t have rich sisters to keep me like yours do.’

If Courfeyrac had been calm, he could easily have attacked Desmarais’ logic. Instead he growled, ‘If you ever speak of my sisters again I’ll cut your tongue out.’ He flipped furiously through the pages. ‘A few names! There are dozens in here. Including your _friends_. Prouvaire. Joly. P– _Pontmercy._ Good God, what has he ever done? He doesn’t have a political fiber in his body. He only comes along because of me.’ His voice broke.

‘You may have noticed that _you’re_ not on the list,’ Desmarais said pointedly.

‘Am I meant to be grateful?’

‘ _Yes_ , in fact, you are.’

Courfeyrac laughed bitterly. ‘Your sense of honor is impeccable.’

‘It is,’ said Desmarais, hotly.

Courfeyrac tore out several pages, crushed them in his hands, and threw the book in the fire. It was only a symbolic gesture; the fire was not lit, and on impact the book drove a cloud of cold soot into the air. Enjolras stared at him defiantly. His monstrous flush had reduced to two red points on his cheeks, and he breathed evenly.

‘You won't tell anyone about this,’ he said. There was no trace of hesitation in his voice; it was an order.

‘I rather think I will,’ Courfeyrac answered. ‘You may have the police on your side, but I have the people on mine. How do you think they will respond when they learn that one of their own has been informing on them?’

‘Not well, I expect,’ Desmarais said nonchalantly, ‘but you won’t tell anyone.’

‘Why shouldn’t I?’

‘Because you need Enjolras. He’s your banner. He’s the honey that draws in the gnats. What would people think if they found out Enjolras was a lie? What if they found out you _knew_ about it, and kept it quiet? It would be enough to shake a man’s faith in the revolution.’

‘Or to fill him with righteous anger, to keep him fighting.’

‘That’s a chance you’ll have to take.’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘But you won’t. I know you won’t.’

‘You overestimate my affection for you.’

‘I wish affection were enough – I truly do. But I have other means of stopping you if I must.’

‘How? By reporting me? It makes no difference to me. It’s a small price, to see you get what you deserve.’

Desmarais frowned, and Courfeyrac suspected that was exactly what he had planned. He felt a little pleased with himself for getting one over Desmarais, but the feeling was short-lived.

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t do that.’ A small, cruel smile crept across his face. ‘But what about Pontmercy?’

Courfeyrac froze. ‘What about him?’

‘You don’t tell anyone, and I strike him from the record. You may not care about your own life, but you wouldn’t be so reckless with his, would you?’

‘I don’t need to bargain with you. You won’t report this information.’

‘Unless I’ve already done it. But I can go back to the police, tell them I was mistaken before – the man they’re looking for is called Font-de-Mercy, and he’s six foot tall with an eye patch – whatever you like. I can do it. If you keep quiet, I can keep Pontmercy out of harm’s way. If you don’t – well, it’s already too late for him.’

Courfeyrac struggled with this. He felt his pulse pounding in his temples and desperately wished he could lose consciousness. ‘You’re bluffing,’ he said.

‘Maybe.’ Desmarais shrugged. ‘But I’ve done it before. I struck Combeferre from the list, because I like him. And I struck Grantaire from the list when I realized he’s about as republican as a block of cheese. I’ll condemn people for trying to elevate mankind, but an honest drunk? My conscience couldn’t take it.’

‘And me?’ Courfeyrac asked weakly.

‘You were never on the list,’ Desmarais said, becoming grave.

Courfeyrac pinched the bridge of his nose and squeezed his eyes shut. He needed space – he couldn’t think. ‘I can’t think,’ he murmured.

‘I can give you time. Two days, let’s say. For two days, you won’t tell anyone, and I won’t go to the police. Agreed?’

‘No! Why in God’s name would I agree to anything you suggest?’

‘Because, whether or not you believe me, I _do_ have a code of honor. And because I never reported you.’

‘I don’t know that,’ Courfeyrac pointed out.

‘I mean it. I swear it.’ Desmarais pulled Courfeyrac’s old snuffbox out of his coat pocket. ‘I swear by Fraternity. What do you swear by?’

‘I don’t swear by anything, damn you!’

‘That’s not fair. I already swore!’

Courfeyrac heaved a ragged sigh. ‘Not two days. Tomorrow morning.’

‘Tomorrow morning, then. What do you swear by?’

‘The Republic, if you like.’

Desmarais nodded, looking relieved. He thrust out his hand. Courfeyrac was tempted to spit, but he sensed that Desmarais set a great deal of store by such gestures, so he clasped his hand briefly. His palm burned as he let go. ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated firmly.

‘Morning,’ Desmarais confirmed, a little too glibly for Courfeyrac’s comfort.

 

On his way out of the building, he stopped to bid good evening to the landlady, who had taken to him in the past few weeks. ‘My friend has a bit of a fever,’ he explained, with all the earnest charm he could muster. ‘Nothing too serious, but I want to make sure he takes care of himself. I’ll be back first thing in the morning to check on him. Will you tell me if he tries to go out, or if anyone comes to see him? Only he’s so stubborn, I’m worried he won’t stay in bed and get the rest he needs. You know what he’s like.’

‘Of course,’ the landlady cooed. ‘He’s lucky to have you for a friend.’

‘Thank you _so_ very much. This will be our secret, of course.’

It was raining when he stepped out, but he made no effort to hurry his walk home. He listened to the rain, and listened to his breath, and failed to keep it steady. He was nearly home before he realized he had left the notebook in Desmarais’ fireplace, and cried out in anguish.


	6. Chapter 6

 

Courfeyrac leaned against the windowsill, pressing his forehead to the cool glass pane. His wet cheek made a grotesque squelching noise against the glass that almost made him laugh. He clung to the laughter, however feeble its cause, and tried to use it to stifle his despair.

He had nearly calmed down by the time Marius came home. Furtively he wiped the tears from his face and the fog from the window pane, and turned around with a smile on his face. 

‘Good evening,’ Courfeyrac offered brightly, though he received only a murmured response. ‘And how is your lady love tonight?’

He didn’t mean much by it. It was just the sort of joke he was accustomed to make. Teasing Marius was a way to distract himself from the horror of that evening’s discovery; at most he expected a blush and a quiet stammered objection. Instead Marius pivoted sharply, face flushed and contorted with anguish, and cried, ‘I do _not_ have a mistress!’ Courfeyrac’s heart plummeted, and the tears of the past hour stung his eyes again. He had never seen Marius angry, had never wanted to; immediately he regretted speaking so carelessly. He was sure the shock registered on his face. A moment later, Marius added, in a soft voice filled with emotion, ‘I beg you, do not speak of it again.’

‘I never will,’ Courfeyrac choked out. Marius undressed and went to bed without saying another word, and Courfeyrac followed suit, though he had no hope of sleeping.

He suspected that Marius was not asleep either, though he lay still for what seemed like hours. His suspicion was confirmed when Marius began to sob softly. How many fractures could the heart sustain in a single night? He longed to reach out to Marius, to make him smile, to penetrate his secret sorrow. He had always prided himself on his warmth, his sympathy, his ability to make others happy; it was the greatest pleasure he knew. Now for the first time he questioned his ability. He felt utterly helpless in the face of Marius’ despair. If Marius had a friend, it was Courfeyrac; Courfeyrac knew him better than anyone in the world; and yet the cause of his sorrow remained utterly obscure to Courfeyrac. Marius, with his mask of sweetness and simplicity, was the most isolated person he had ever known.

Perhaps there was something else holding Courfeyrac back, something within himself that he did not like to name. He was afraid that Marius did not want to be comforted, at least not by him; afraid that if he tried he would fail. Lying beside his friend feeling helpless seemed better than having his fear confirmed.

As soon as he acknowledged this thought, he was forced to admit its absurdity. Once he had done so, natural tenderness took over. He slipped from his own bed and lay beside Marius, taking the boy in his arms. He did not speak, and neither did Marius; but he did not pull away. Gradually his breathing began to slow as Courfeyrac stroked the spot behind his ear. When he was certain Marius was asleep, Courfeyrac pressed his face into his friend’s lovely dark curls and kissed the crown of his head.

An hour before dawn, Courfeyrac rose and returned to the rue Saint-Antoine. The rain had let up, but the street was filled with water that soaked through the toes of his boots. Courfeyrac waited outside the pension until Desmarais emerged, gripped him by the arm, and whispered in his ear, ‘I agree to your terms.’


End file.
